


Amor Vacui

by Riemann_integrable



Category: Id:Invaded (Anime)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blood and Gore, Dreams, Emotional Baggage, Fukuda's pov, Gay Sex, Head-drilling, M/M, Narihisago behaves like the wreck I'm convinced he is deep down, Piercings, Roughness, set sometime before ep 8, well who WOULD HAVE EXPECTED that tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:48:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23128810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riemann_integrable/pseuds/Riemann_integrable
Summary: And so the air goes through and makes everything clearer.
Relationships: Fukuda Tamotsu/Narihisago Akihito
Comments: 7
Kudos: 102
Collections: Estande





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuses except that this ship is so interesting and multifaceted I felt really free in giving my own interpretation of it.

Thesis statement: there is value in absence. There is no ‘more’ that isn’t ‘too much’. Being denied what you have changes you as you jam something desperately into the vacancy, you’re forced to expand and find a new route for every bridge you burn down. Sometimes neural pathways do it. If a part of the brain is incapacitated they simply find a way around. It doesn’t always happen, of course, but it does make one think more, both figuratively and literally. 

The absence of anything on the walls pleases Fukuda to no end. It pleases him even more that one of the  _ walls _ can hardly be called a  _ wall _ as it’s transparent, thus defeating one of its primary purposes. Either way he doesn’t feel the need to scribble anything on them — he could, they did give him a pen — and his memory doesn’t always catch why that’s a good thing. It’s just the impression of being relaxed. It’s all so very empty, like most of the other cells, there’s one, two, three— He can’t quite follow how many. His eyes shut as he blanks out for the smallest fraction of a second, a beautifully vague and unquantifiable fraction. 

One wall isn’t empty. Narihisago is transfixed by that wall as though it’s an icon he worships, one can almost imagine how his gaze moves along the photos lazily. He’s usually aware he’s being stared at, unlike his home décor. There’s a groan he does those times, because he can’t find anything reasonable to complain about regarding Fukuda, but being the intelligent individual that he is the intent of bothering him does come through. Maybe Narihisago would prefer Fukuda talked so he could tell him to shut up. 

He tosses and turns at night. Under the eyes of the other inmates, slightly muffled by the transparent wall, probably immersed in something similar to his own Well. Fukuda blinks his way at times, ultimately deciding he doesn’t care about his own quality of sleep; why would anyone care in a confined place where there’s nothing to do all day either way? Narihisago gets more turbulent in intervals and stops for a few moments between them. He probably misses his previous life, a big mistake in Fukuda’s view, but he’ll let him off. Perhaps because deep down there’s something he misses as well, drilling holes for example — with all their charitableness Kura didn’t supply him with a drill and the pen isn’t sharp enough. Fukuda stuck it in the hole on his forehead out of boredom earlier. He knows exactly how sharp it is. 

As much as Narihisago’s dreams likely dwell on his past, Fukuda’s tend to reflect something between daydreams and potential futures. 

He dreams about drilling a hole through Narihisago’s head. More precisely he dreams about Narihisago asking him, which is as dreamlike at first glance as it’s realistic on the second take. In the lackluster lighting of an abandoned fast food kitchen, laid across the table like a surgery patient, not even needing to be tied down to stay still. His eyes are an odd translucent green on Fukuda, inspecting, analyzing him, elaborating something — it’s how Fukuda likes to imagine him, uncompromisingly inquisitive. The drill buzzes.

“It will feel clearer.”

“I know it will” Narihisago says in a tone too neutral for someone about to suffer brain damage.

Fukuda steps closer.

“Are you taking this like a punishment?”

“I’m taking it as something I’ve wanted to do for a long time” Narihisago sighs, sagging on the metal surface in the precise situation where one would expect tensing up. 

“You can’t be serious.” Fukuda’s laugh is short and filled with genuine amusement.

He brings the tool closer. There’s expertise to this by now; as much as it’s not an act of mercy on his part he tries to do only the necessary damage with the drilling, he knows which cortices it should be run through and which it shouldn’t. Frontal lobe yes, parietal lobe should be avoided if possible, stay surface enough not to get the limbic system, leave the hippocampus alone. A lot of his dedication is underappreciated, really. 

It goes different than with Hondomachi. She headbutted into that drill with full conviction, but Narihisago simply lies there, relaxed, like he’s being given a massage. His only reaction is the instinctive narrowing of his eyes as the cutting edge gets too close to them. Fukuda cups his jaw on the other side to keep his head still, coarse hairs against his skin, and Narihisago’s eyelids nearly close like a cat’s. Slowly lowering the drill he can feel a hand over his own. There’s a dead silence aside from the whirring. 

The amount of blood is elegant. Not enough to get everywhere but it still makes a line down the side of Narihisago’s face. A straight, quiet, slow line. Fukuda’s aware he’s dreaming, more than anything he marvels at his own visual creativity, at the complementary colours of the blood and the other man’s irises. 

He pokes before he can stop himself. In the course of a few seconds he’s overcome with a bout of infantile curiosity, in spite of having seen a decent amount of those holes by now — he touches the circumference with his index. Narihisago hisses without moving away. So that’s how it is, Fukuda thinks, and he applies more pressure; by now the other might feel the uncomfortable edge of his nail, no, he  _ does _ feel it because his body erupts in a sort of spasm. 

“Can you feel the air—” he exhales, as if to demonstrate, “going through?”

“If you want to call it that.”

Their breaths intermingle. Fukuda finds his gaze roaming across the tiniest red specks on Narihisago’s cheek. He can’t count how many there are. 


	2. Chapter 2

Narihisago’s tearing at his snakebite with his teeth and Fukuda hisses only slightly, keeping him pinned to the iron table. The process is exactly as challenging as expected. Narihisago has that fake defiance that he always finds so much enjoyment in, that pretense he’s trying to choke Fukuda out when he wraps his arms around his neck. Fukuda pretends, in return, that he’s genuinely falling over Narihisago, that the friction is accidental, that there isn’t a desperation in every single one of the other’s movements to feel his closeness. 

But he knows the grip on the bend of his knee coincides exactly with what Narihisago wants. He tightens it, the way you would to break the joint out of place, the way you hold a gun to someone’s head just to spook them. 

Narihisago’s whine is throaty, like his vocal cords haven’t been used the right way for too many years.

“Fukuda, get on with it.” He doesn’t even leave room for an answer; “Please just get on with it.”

It’s one of the few times — if not the first — he actually addressed him by his name and Fukuda palms his cock through his pants appreciatively while kissing him hard. Bites his lip at the end for the hell of it.

“You’re in a hurry,” he comments as the other gasps for air, “or desperate.”

“Whichever you prefer.”

He barely notices Narihisago’s hands doing some trickery with his fly; it’s remarkably stealthy, they’re really close to each other after all. He pulls out Fukuda’s cock in a way entirely unlike a principled, honest, working man with a nuclear family — Fukuda muses — but that’s the story now, isn’t it. That Narihisago is a monster, that he’s off the rails and he murdered people and now all his principled, honest buddies think him lower than dirt, that’s his entire shtick. Fukuda snatches both his wrists with more violence than necessary, they bang against the iron table above his head. His other hand’s priority is getting Narihisago’s pants out of the way, although with less grace than the other way around. The struggle is ambiguous, poetically so, because it looks either like Narihisago is trying to free himself or like he’s helping him along with the writhing. 

Fukuda lets go and leans down between his legs until his lips are mere millimeters away from Narihisago’s collarbone, almost feeling the goosebumps caused by his exhale, until he’s properly grinding against Narihisago and there’s as much contact between them as possible. He spits on his hand and gives himself a few strokes, which judging from the other man’s perplexed expression is more generous than expected, and it occurs that generosity might be a blunder in this game. They both overlook it.

In a single, firm movement Fukuda fucks into Narihisago. 

The moan he gets sounds genuinely pained. Exactly like Fukuda intended; it’s psychological pain, it’s heavier, it has nothing to do with the manhandling or the lack of lube. Maybe it’s how tightly he’s holding Narihisago, enveloping him like he’s trying to digest him and break him down into pieces. He doesn’t let go though, not even as he starts moving, and Narihisago fists the back of his shirt tighter and tighter with each thrust. 

Yes, maybe it’s the intimacy itself. This man is fine with being treated like shit, Fukuda has already realized as much. He’s fine with getting roughly fucked into an iron table as well apparently. Intimacy is the way to really get to him, kindness or any semblance thereof because to Narihisago it’s shoving a finger into an old wound and poking around in it. Fukuda thrusts into his ass so hard it could sprain Narihisago’s back while clutching him in his arms lovingly. Fukuda pokes around in the metaphorical wound. It’s his fascination with holes, he supposes. 

Narihisago’s sounds get rhythmical. Spontaneous.

“Enjoying yourself” Fukuda pants against his neck before dragging his lips and the cold metal of his piercing along the stubble.

“You think I— Ah! Care about dignity?” Narihisago’s fingers curl around his hair on the uninjured side. “You think I give a fuck?”

“I figured you don’t.”

He isn’t in the right state to banter back in a few moments. Fukuda’s thrusts get faster and Narihisago is falling apart at the seams in an uninterrupted series of groans as his heel digs into the other’s back. Maybe it’s obnoxiously sentimental but Fukuda finds him the most attractive like this. With the flush on his face, legs spread, covered in sweat as he takes his cock, a shine in his eyes he probably hasn’t had since before the murders. Perhaps the same one as when he doesn’t have his memories. Fucking him when he has the full picture, though, is on an entirely different level.

Narihisago murmurs — as much as he can manage to murmur — against his shoulder. 

“Shit, this is so—” He interrupts himself with a gasp. “I’m so—”

There’s something cold and wet, different from sweat or precum, and Fukuda becomes suddenly aware of the feel of it against his skin but— he’s being excessively charitable, he ignores it and continues to fuck Narihisago steadily, making sure he feels every inch if only to distract him. He licks a long line from his right temple to his forehead, a taste of drying smears of blood. Narihisago makes a guttural sound that thins into a whimper and digs little crescents into the expanse of his back with his nails, which is fine; more holes are always better. The regular impacts with the table as Fukuda plunges in his cock awaken the remainders of some urge to number them, to assign integers, but he loses track and loses himself in how forceful he can make his thrusts without opposition.

In an alternate reality, maybe he’d touch Narihisago as he’s about to come. He doesn’t want to be touched in this one. They both reach a climax though, during which Narihisago thrashes his head to the side and grits his teeth; the route of the tear streaming down his face is diverted by the rhythm of sex before landing on metal. Fukuda realizes, the moment he comes inside Narihisago, that he’s been quite unaware of his own motivations and level of affectedness in the ordeal thus far, or that it’s gone beyond curiosity. He wonders, as he keeps holding the other man longer than necessary, if one or two electric impulses have found their way around the piece of frontal lobe he destroyed. 

They’re at a standstill. Like a composite artwork sculpted in that rigid position. 

It could look different. Narihisago could forget. He  _ should _ forget. He should get those layers of despair scraped off of him and approach the world with that paradoxical mixture of skepticism and naïveté. Fukuda should have changed plans and drilled straight to his hippocampus, made him an amnesiac. But that would have made him feel pitied, provided he could still understand language after such an intervention, and so Fukuda lets go of him. He tries to look at his face but suddenly it’s all dark and blurry and he’s in a prison cell again.

Such an empty ceiling.

Narihisago rolls over in his bed, he seems to have somewhat calmed down. There are so many ways he has changed and so many ways he could. And maybe they’ll be locked in here for life and Fukuda will never be allowed to drill another hole again, let alone coax Narihisago into the arrangement; but at least Narihisago has a chance to empty that one wall. Burn that bridge down and find a new route.

And Fukuda is sure that when that time comes he will feel better. 


End file.
